


It takes all of my time (to be in love with you)

by epphfervescent



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Dor-lómin, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Fingering, Gentle Sex, M/M, Married Sex, Mind Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Maedhros, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Telepathy, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, YOOOO THATS A TAG???, amputee character, i need to stop with the tongue in cheek summaries lfkglkd, just light edging, kissing????? this is so soft it makes me furious, not really pregnancy 'kink' but w/e, the inherent eroticism of osanwe, trans!maedhros, warnings for maedhros' standard post-angband brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epphfervescent/pseuds/epphfervescent
Summary: The Lord of Himring visits the Crown Prince--for the dull sake of diplomacy, certainly.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	It takes all of my time (to be in love with you)

**Author's Note:**

> title from All Die Young by Smith Westerns, which is just a--just a horrid canonverse russingon mood, but one I like inflicting on myself.
> 
> Just to note, since the popular depiction seems to be single below elbow: I've written Maedhros as having had a forequarter amputation.

Fingon’s bedroom in Dor-lómin is a pretty thing. Round-walled and airy for the valley’s eternal summer, and more comfort than finery—soft sheets, soft rugs. His things are scattered all around, and it’s…bracing, almost. You don’t travel west often—certainly never stayed as long as your pregnancy will demand you stay this time—but with the place so clearly lived-in, so clearly _Fingon’s_ , it mitigates the strangeness of living somewhere new. It’s altogether not a bad place for a reunion. Whitewashed carvings, bright in the daylight, are muted, now, and waver with half a million pinpricks of candlelight. It’s _nice_.

Whether or not you were there from the start, there is a—close, warm space at the back of your mind, at the centre of you. What happens outside of you, to the rest of you, isn’t—nullified, but is _dulled,_ from there. Shapes and muffled sound—like looking up from the bottom of a lake. And perhaps it’s not warm, anymore, so much as humid, cloying; not safe so much as claustrophobic. You don’t think, when you think about it at all, that a single part of you returned form the hells of iron the same. But you did with it what you did with Himring; thick walls, stone and steel.

Impenetrable fortresses are a commodity.

The small flames flicker on the wicks, flicker a memory. There—

Angband was for torches, or else long-wicked candles the size of arms. Drooling fat ropes of tallow, stinking of dead things and black smoke. Fortresses, cells, bedrooms; they’re all the same in the dark, even if these lights—

These, are round. Speared on crystal stems and dyed pink, they all together look like goblets of rose-wine. It may be more apt than that; riding the scent of the burning wick is something miscellaneously floral. 

You don’t know why you were comparing them at all. 

That space locks in as much as it keeps out, and even you, prone to fretfulness—even you don’t know why you’re not _here_.

If the mind is a lake, you take a breath. The air in your lungs, buoyant, carries you to the surface.

You find yourself still in Fingon’s lap, his arms looped around your belly. He’s stiff and unmoving inside of you, his mouth pressed to the base of your neck. Not kissing, so much as—staying.

 _You didn’t need to wait,_ you think, quietly. It seems impossible to speak. Like sound will pop the bubble, because in the bedroom, there are no clinging shadows. The jaali over the windows are so intricate, you can’t even see outside. This is—this is better.

“I like to be with you,” he murmurs, breath tickling your skin. A tendril of thought, yellow-bright, passes along the link between you, lingering at the edges—if the mind is a lake, he lays across the surface tension until you let him _sink_ , the water rippled with that golden light. He fills you, all comforting fondness. “I like you here.”

You’re all but melted together. Yes, this is—so much better.

 _Well,_ you think, _i_ _n that case._

Fingon making a soft, wanting sound behind you as you shift, getting your weight under you. His arms slide up your torso, freeing your hips, and you start to fuck him.

You ease into the flow of it, your sensitive rim twitching as you thrust back on Fingon’s cock. Your eyes slip shut. He—feels so _good_ moving inside you. Pregnancy lit up your nerves, everything feeling _more_ and _better_ , and the friction against your sensitive walls is fucking effulgent. The rosy smugness drifting across your bond doesn’t lessen the effect.

Fingon moves with you, but only gently. No more than a tilt of the hips, kissing your neck responsively. He worries gently across your back, from one shoulder to the lip of scar down the slope of your torso, as you settle into proper, rhythmic undulation. 

Fingon keens, stifling a jerk up into you. _Not yet_ , though you can’t tell what for; he only pulls you tighter against his chest. His fingers splay across your sides; you’re pregnant enough that you’re swollen there too, and you—look down. Like you’re drawn to.

You see with your thought as much as your eyes, and haven’t been able to look at your bloated body in a mirror without taking in the pricks of light inside it—the half-formed consciousnesses flitting, yet unthinking, but alive. You swing wildly between worry and gladness and deep foreboding—but right now the sight of your pregnancy bracketed by your husband’s elbows is nothing but sweet. You only feel _good_. Heavy, the fullness like satiety, with Fingon in your mind, your belly, your ass. 

His cock is a comforting stretch, by now, but your muscles still strain, looking for _more_. The plea flares in both your heads, but as he’s wont to do, Fingon waits. A hand slips down from your ribs but only to cup the lower curve of your belly. The only hints of _more_ are the sultry, sucking licks his nuzzling’s become.

Your rhythm goes erratic. You grind down on him so his balls press against your ass, wanting him _deeper_ if he’ll give you nothing else. Instead he—holds you, keeping you _still_ against his groin. You make a choked noise as he takes over, thrusting into you as deep but torturously slow. It feels like it takes years for him to build up the lazy rhythm, years for fingertips to caress your labia—

It’s your turn to keen as he slips inside you, fingers curling. _Yes_ , you think, a sigh into that insular void. _Yes, yes_.

Fingon mirrors the _needing_ ; he can feel himself moving in your ass through the thin skin of your taint, you know. You know how erotic he finds it.

Your head drops back on his shoulder—exposing your throat, but to who? Only your husband. Around you, inside you, fucking you with his hand and cock both—if you thought yourself filled before—

You can feel the tipping point nearing. It builds in your bond as much as your bodies, your pleasure compounding his, and his, yours. Blooms of desire pop behind your eyes, the lake ripples in sunset colors—

Fingon’s hips stutter; after a minute you realize it’s _him_ coming, spilling hot inside you. His orgasm is so intense he hazes both your vision. He arches, perhaps overbalances, either way tips to lie back on the bed. He brings you along—laid out across him, bracketed by thighs, gripping your cunt like a lifeline. You can’t pick apart which of you is panting, who is softening inside of who.

You’re so dazed by the afterimage of pleasure, you almost miss Fingon’s slicked fingers withdrawing, rolling over your stiff clit. _Oh, yes,_ one of you whispers.

You tighten around his spent cock; autonomic, and just to hear him groan. He’s mouthing your ear, murmuring. Too spent for real words but the praise, the coaxing, is in his thought. You’re already so close, you hardly need it. Your _whole body_ flexes and Fingon strokes you through your orgasm, strokes you past it, until you’re gasping, twitching.

 _I’m glad you came_ , he thinks, after, when you’ve both recovered. You’re still lying on him, in a sticky, sated haze.

You arch an eyebrow. _Funny_.

Fingon smiles, a twitch on your neck, nuzzling close again. _I_ _mean_ _it_. The _wanting_ drifts to you in waves.

You’ve never stayed with him in Dor-lómin longer than a week. You’ve been too afraid of a lot of the things you’re doing. Your hand strays to your bowed stomach, and like magnet, his follow, flushed and comfortingly warm.

“I’m glad too,” you say.

**Author's Note:**

> Props to Fingon for finding a romantic way to say ‘dude if I kept fucking you through a minor episode that would be so uncool I’d have to go commit seppuku on the balcony’
> 
> same url on tumblr, I'm gross there in all the same ways


End file.
